Tuesday, March 7
SELF-PORTRAIT AS A DOOR All the birds die of blunt force trauma— of barn of wire of YIELD or SLOW CHILDREN AT PLAY. You are a sign are a plank are a raft are a felled oak. You are a handle are a turn are a bit of brass lovingly polished. What birds what bugs what soft hand come knocking. What echo what empty what room in need of a picture a mirror a bit of paint on the wall. There is a hooked rug. There is a hand hard as you are hard pounding the door. There is the doormat owl eye patched by a boot by a body with a tree for a hand. What roosts what burrows what scrambles at the pound. There is a you on the other side, cold and white as the room, in need of a window or an eye. There is your hand on the door which is now the door pretending to be a thing that opens. (Donika Kelly)